Blindman’s Bluff

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Abba. You look great for…” Hannah stopped herself. For your age were the unspoken words. She kissed his cheek. “I hope my husband will be as handsome as you.”

Decker smiled despite himself. “Thank you, but I’m sure your husband will be much handsomer.”

“That would be impossible. No one is as handsome as you are and with the exception of pro athletes, hardly anyone is as tall as you. It gets a tall girl down sometimes. We either have to wear flats or tower over most of the class.”

“You’re not that tall.”

“That’s only because to you everyone is short. I’m already taller than Cindy and she’s five nine.”

“If you’re taller, it’s not by much. And there are many boys over five nine.”

“Not Jewish boys.”

“I’m a Jewish boy.”

“Not Jewish boys who are still in high school.”

Decker liked that. It meant she’d have to wait until college to find a boyfriend. Hannah noticed the subtle smile. “You’re not being very sympathetic.”

“I’m sorry I gave you the Big T gene.”

“That’s okay,” Hannah said. “It comes with its benefits but also its detriments. When you’re tall and thin and dress nicely, people think you’re trying to be a model and that you don’t have a brain in your head.”

“I’m sure you get lots of sympathy from your friends about that.”

“I don’t tell my friends that, I’m telling you.” She looked at the dining room table. “Did you like the cookies?”

“Too much. That’s precisely why I don’t want junk in the house.”

“Enjoy the cookies, Abba,” Hannah told him. “Life is short even if you’re not.”

IT STARTED AS a soft tinkling in the background of her dream until Rina realized it was the phone. Marge Dunn was on the line and her voice was a monotone.

“I need to speak to the boss.”

Rina regarded her husband. He hadn’t changed positions since falling asleep four hours ago. The nightstand clock said it was almost three in the morning. Because Peter was a lieutenant, he didn’t get many middle-of-the-night calls. The West Valley didn’t teem with crime, and his elite squad of homicide investigators usually fielded whatever mayhem happened in the wee hours. Murders were rare, but when they occurred, they were usually nasty. But even nasty did not necessitate waking up the Loo at three in the morning.

A sensational story was another animal altogether.

Rina rubbed goose bumps on her arm, then gently shook him awake. “It’s Marge.”

Decker bolted up in bed and took the phone from Rina. His voice was still heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”

“Multiple homicide.”

“Dear God—”

“At last count, there were four murdered and one attempted homicide. The survivor—a son of the couple murdered—is on his way to St. Joe’s; he was shot but he’ll probably live.”

Decker stood up and grabbed his shirt, buttoning it while he spoke. “Who’re the victims?”

“For starters, how about Guy and Gilliam Kaffey—as in Kaffey Industries.”

Decker gasped. Guy and his younger brother, Mace, were responsible for most of the shopping malls in Southern California. “Where?”

“Coyote Ranch.”

“Someone broke into the ranch?” He tucked the phone underneath his chin and talked as he slipped on his pants. “I thought the place was a fortress.”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s gigantic—seventy acres abutting the foothills. Not to mention the mansion. It’s its own city.”

Decker remembered a magazine feature someone had done on the ranch a while ago. It was a series of compounds, although the main quarters were big enough to house a convention. Along with the numerous other buildings on the ranch, there were the requisite swimming pool, hot tub, and tennis court. It also had a kennel, a riding corral big enough for Olympic equestrian courses, a ten-stall stable for the wife’s show horses, an airstrip long enough for any prop plane, and its own freeway exit. About a year ago, Guy Kaffey made a bid to purchase the L.A. Galaxy after the team had secured David Beckham, but the deal fell through.

As Decker recalled, there were two sons and he wondered which one had been shot. “What about all the bodyguards?”

“Two in the guardhouse at the front and both of them dead,” Marge answered. “We’re still searching. There’s something like ten different structures on the property. So there may be more bodies. What’s your ETA?”

“Maybe ten minutes. Who’s down there now?”

“About a half-dozen squad cars. Oliver called in Strapp. Only a matter of time before the press gets wind.”

“Secure the property. I don’t want the press messing up the crime scene.”

“Will do. See you soon.”

Decker hung up and made a mental checklist of what he’d need—a notepad and pens, gloves, evidence bags, face masks, magnifying glass, metal detector, Vaseline, and Advil, the last item not for forensic use but because he had a pounding headache, the result of being awakened from a deep sleep.

Rina said, “What’s going on?”

“Multiple homicide at Coyote Ranch.”

She sat up straight. “The Kaffey place?”

“Yes, ma’am. No doubt, it’s going to be a circus by the time I arrive.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s going to be a nightmare in logistics. The place is around seventy acres—absolutely no way to totally wall off the area.”

“I know, it’s tremendous. About a year ago, they did a showcase home there for some kind of charity. I heard the gardens were absolutely magnificent. I wanted to go but something came up.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ll get a second chance.” Decker opened the gun safe, took out his Beretta, and slipped it into his shoulder harness. “That’s a terrible thing to say but I make no excuses. Dealing with the press in high-profile cases brings out the bastard in me.”

“They’ve called the press at three-fifteen in the morning?”

“Can’t stop death and taxes—and you can’t stop the news.” He gave her a peck on the top of her head. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Rina sighed. “That’s really sad. All that money is a deadly magnet for leeches, con artists, and just plain evil people.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about being too thin, but you certainly can be too rich.”